


a dropped fork

by ktula



Series: kt's terror ficlets [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Fantasy, Victorian Attitudes, let them make it to Hawaii challenge, proud to announce i'm back on my usual bullshit, second person jopson lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24899788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: There are only the two of you here, in this fantasy. You, seated in a chair, the dropped fork between your legs. Andhim, kneeling between, one hand reaching for the utensil, the other steading himself on your knee.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Series: kt's terror ficlets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815013
Comments: 32
Kudos: 69
Collections: Fingerbang #1





	a dropped fork

**Author's Note:**

> *trips, and a ficlet falls out of their pocket*

You pick up your fork. Contemplate the act of letting it slide from your fingers; fall to the floor. The noise would catch his attention instantly; he has a preternatural sense of hearing. Your tongue would be tied, your words caught in your throat, but he would be on his knees before you could have said anything anyways.

(There are only the two of you here, in this fantasy. You, seated in a chair, the dropped fork between your legs. And _him_ , kneeling between, one hand reaching for the utensil, the other steading himself on your knee. He doesn’t need to touch you there. You both recognize this as contact he _wants_ , that he initiates of his own accord. He plucks your fork from the floorboards, leans in. You can feel his breath through your trousers. He inhales deeply as he rises, his eyelids falling half-closed. You could bid him stay, put your hand on his shoulder, withdraw your half-hard prick. There are only two of you here, you could—)

Across the table someone laughs, dashing your dreams to pieces. You glance over to _him_ as if compelled. His eyes meet yours. Today, they’re the colour of the southern ocean, where the water is blue and green and the sand is warm under your toes. God, if only you’d met him on one of _those_ voyages, where the sailing was easy, the sun constant, and you could have taught him to swim in a private cove.

(You’re good at it. He would have admired that. He would have clung to your shoulder as you treaded out into deeper water, his wet hair hanging in his eyes until you brushed it back. He would have had eyes only for you, and no one else to serve. He would have—)

“More?” He stands at your shoulder now. His voice is quiet, soft, unobtrusive. He is everything a steward ought to be.

You nod acquiescence, watch his steady hands as he fills a drink you don’t even want; you just want him to _stay_. He has long, elegant fingers, clean nails. You’d like to see them wet with your spit, like to drag your tongue along their length; suck them into your mouth. He’s been to sea before, and a man that pretty has likely had officers imposing on him for favours. Have any of them even bothered to touch him back?

(You would. With your hands, with your mouth. He could have your arse, if he wanted it. You hope he does.)

He turns his head, and you cast your eyes downward to your plate, to _veal cutlet tomato_. Your fork is steady in your grip, but you’re thinking of his hand on the back of your neck, his cockstand rubbing up against your hip.

You look up at him one more time, and he holds your gaze. Opens his mouth.

You watch him form a word, silently.

You recognize the syllables of your own name.

_Edward._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula) and [tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/) and ready for the mortifying ordeal of being Known.


End file.
